About a Boy
by Taurus
Summary: Most Edward Scissorhands fics are about a girl, who comes into Edward's life and makes everything better. This one is about a boy, who can help even though he's got his own problems. No slash, AU
1. Of Books and Hands

About a Boy

Disclaimer: Neither Edward nor Suburbia belong to me. Neither does Kim. Neither does anything you might recognize. Everything else, including the lovely and talented Irish punk Shae O'Connor, belongs to ME! ME! YOU CAN'T HAVE MY SHAE, TIM BURTON, AND I CAN BORROW YOUR EDWARD! NANANANANANA!!! Wait. . .stop. . .Tim, I love you! (You get the point, right?) Also, if you see any inaccuracies in the description of anything, just review and tell me. . .I haven't seen the film since I was thirteen.

Chapter One: Of Books and Hands

Shae couldn't stop himself. He HAD to see what the castle looked like up close. There was something about it. . .something sad, something dark, something MAGNETIC. Of course he'd heard the stories about the man who lived up there. . .Edward Scissorhands. . .how he'd been brought down to Suburbia years ago, how he'd terrorized the townspeople and brought nothing but death and sorrow. Shae didn't believe a word of it, especially after listening to old Mrs. Kim's side of the story. She was just as much of an outsider as Shae himself was, having left Suburbia for so many years, then having come back as she grew old, to find that she had family from her deceased brother, Kevin.

Shae thought she was a little insane, and didn't exactly believe there was a man up there, especially not one like Edward Scissorhands, and even then, he'd probably be dead by now. Though perhaps. . .if he HAD existed, he'd been different, and Shae knew that these picture-perfect, suppressed Suburbians couldn't have handled something different. Hell, look at the way they'd handled HIM! Yeah, he'd heard the whispers, seen the discreet hand motions toward him. Well, when you were different, that was all people could see.

Shivering in the evening chill, Shae drew his leather jacket closer round his shoulders. His feet were warm in his scuffed Doc Martens, but the thin cotton plaid peg leg pants he wore were not defense against the early spring nip. "Almost there," he murmured to himself, clambering over a pile of rocks and tripping over a tree root. He fell to his knees in font of the large wooden gate. Rising, he dusted himself off disgustedly, murmuring, "Clumsy bastard," and flattening his palm against the gate, he pushed it open, wincing at the squeal of protest, and stepped into the most beautifully manicured garden he'd ever seen.

The hedges were trimmed expertly into fanciful shapes; topiaries modeled into llamas and dolphins and centaurs. There were only wild flowers, he noted—dandelions and bluebells and small wild rosebushes that were just putting out new buds. He thought it odd that flowers were neglected when so much attention was given to the bushes.

But he had not come to see the garden. He had come to see the castle. Stepping toward the door, he found it unlocked, and entered. Everything was very dark, and Shae found himself wishing he had a flashlight. Instead, he tugged his Zippo out of his pocket and flicked it a couple of times. The flame did more harm than good, drawing his eyes to it rather than his surroundings, and he closed it and returned it to his pocket. As his eyes adjusted a little, he looked round himself. He was standing in a large room, everything a mass of cobwebs, dust-filled corners, and some furniture draped in heavy canvas cloth. As he advanced, his boot caught on something lying on the ground, and he again fell sprawling onto his face. Cursing, he searched for what it was that had tripped him, brushing the object clear of debris and. . .Shae let out a mangled squeal. It was a HAND! And. . .and it was mechanical. Wires and metallic buttons protruded from the wrist, and as he looked about himself, Shae noticed another, identical hand, the mate of the one he was holding. They were beautifully-shaped, with very pale, fine skin, long, tenuous fingers, and wide, artistic palms. On a whim, Shae stowed them both in his voluminous jacket pocket. It seemed a very natural thing to do. After all, who would need them?

Rising, he continued along the hall, feeling his way along the walls, squinting in the darkness. His eyes adjusted to the dimness more, and he was soon able to walk without support. When he came to a staircase, he unhesitatingly climbed it. He took his time exploring, especially when he came to what looked at first glance to be a sitting room, with tall, red candles sitting in their silver candlesticks, dulled by age and lack of care. Shae tugged out his lighter and lit several. They illuminated a room full of the objects he loved most in the world—books! Scrambling hungrily toward a shelf, he pulled out an antique folio of Aristotle. He nearly wept at the beautiful, musty scent of old leather and paper as he opened it. Dusting off a portion of a couch, Shae sank back into the cushions and began scanning the pages avidly. When he became bored, he exchanged the folio for a volume of Milton. When Latin tired him, he found an old first edition of _Treasure Island_, and he fell asleep just as Jim Hawkins met Ben Gunn.

When Shae woke, he was covered in a blanket, and had a small scratch on his left cheek. Rubbing his palms over the fine stubble that had grown over his jaw during the night, he wiped the sleep from his eyes and glanced at his watch. It was 10:45, and he nearly panicked before realizing that it was Saturday. He sighed in relief and sat up. It was several moments before his brain let him in on the fact that there was a man sitting in an armchair opposite him, and that he had long, gleaming blades in the place of fingers. When he did realize it, however, he was not afraid. He looked up at the man's face.

It was livid white, with small scars littered across it. The man had a high, wide forehead, no eyebrows, and deeply-set, heavily shadowed black eyes. His nose was straight—one of the most perfect noses Shae had ever seen, and his cheekbones were high and pronounced, with deep hollows beneath them. His mouth was small and dark, with a meticulously shaped upper lip, and a fuller, more reckless lower lip. His chin and jaw were stubborn, and his coal-black hair, feathery and matted, was long and thrown haphazardly at every angle.

Shae doubted his own hair looked too much better at the moment. "Are you Edward Scissorhands?" he inquired. The man nodded hesitantly, but otherwise made no other move than the occasional twitch of a scissor. "I heard about you. . .I thought ye might be dead." There was a long pause. "You don't look old at all, but I bet you don't age. After all, you were built." Shae reached into his pocket, and retrieved the hands. "Are these yours?"

Edward's eyes lit up at the sight of his hands. "Wh. . .where did you find them?" his voice, low and uncertain, seemed rusty from disuse.

"Downstairs," Shae said, then remembered that he'd not introduced himself. "I'm Shae. Shae O'Connor."

"Do you come from. . .the village?"

"No, I'm from Ireland. My brother brought me here. He's marryin' a girl from th' village, though."

"Do you know Kim?" Edward inquired beseechingly.

"Mrs. Kim. . .aye, I know her. Everyone knows her. She left Suburbia f'r a long time when she was about twenty, but she came back maybe ten years ago. She's. . .she's the on'y one that really remembers you anymore. Th' on'y one what thinks ye might be still alive. Everyone else has either forgotten completely or is too scared to admit they remember, like." Shae murmured thoughtfully. Edward caught his eyes.

"Are you afraid of me?"

"No." Shae answered unhesitatingly. "I don't believe everything I hear, especially what these Suburbians say, but Mrs. Kim. . .she knows what she's talkin' about. She's different. Like me."

"Is she still. . .beautiful?"

"Aye, as beautiful as an eighty-five year-old woman's allowed tae be." There was a long silence during which both men studied one another.

Finally, Edward spoke up. "Why are they afraid of you? You're finished. You look like them. Even though you talk funny. . .you're not like me."

"I'm not like them, either." Shae shrugged. "I don't dress like them, I'm from a different country, I grew up a different way, I don't do things like they'd expect me to, I don't LIKE the things they'd expect me to."

"But you've never done anything. . .like I have." Edward detached his gaze from Shae's and stared mournfully at his scissor hands. "I am. . ." he searched for the word that Jim had always called him, ". . .a freak."

Shae knit his brow. "That's never right. Whoever called yeh that was only coverin' up his own insecurities. Now look. . ." he hesitated, "ye say I haven't done anything like you have. P'rhaps you're right. I've never killed a man. I've never had to. You have. But I've done worse than rid a town of one worthless slacker."

"But. . ."

"Yeh think you're a freak, well you could try not bein' one. See how they'll treat you if you're finished."

"But. . .I can't be finished."

"I can finish you."

Edward glanced up, blinking. "You. . .how?"

"Well, all you need it to take off those scissors an' put on your hands." Shae motioned to the appendages now lying on an end table. "Can't be THAT difficult, like. Will you lemme have a look?" Edward held his arms out stiffly, and Shae rose to inspect them. After twiddling with the ends of Edward's leather sleeves, he sighed. "It'd help if I could see exactly where th' scissors start." Edward bit his lower lip. "Will you let me loosen your clothes? I won't hurt you." The other man nodded wordlessly. Shae pulled one of Edward's arms to the side, carefully resting his wrist on the arm of the chair, then did the same with his other arm. Reaching forward, he unfastened the buckle at Edward's throat, and another at his chest, another at his stomach. It was strange, undressing another man, Shae thought bemusedly, as he peeled leather away from skin. There were tight muscles in the chest and abdomen, and Shae didn't doubt that Edward had his share of work with the numerous topiaries in the garden.

He continued unbuckling the leather garment down each arm, and it was not long till Edward's arms and torso were bare. He was so smooth and white, and hairless, like a baby. As Shae studied Edward's wrist, he noted that just where the carpals ended, if Edward did indeed have carpals, there also the pale skin ended, and switched into a network of leathery black tissue and protrusions of shiny metal. There was also, on the underside of the wrist, a small raised button, square and cold to the touch. Shae depressed it with a finger, and Edward drew in a breath, making a brief sound of pain, but the scissor hand detached easily and fell with a clatter to the ground.

Shae looked at Edward's face. His lips were set in a thin line, and his eyes bright with pain, tight round the edges. "I'm sorry. Does it hurt?" Edward nodded. Shae quickly picked up the hand matching that arm, the left, and fitted it carefully on. Something in the wrist clicked and whirred, and the hand sank perfectly into place. There was a long moment of silence. Shae looked into Edward's eyes. "C. . .can you move your fingers?" Edward shook his head, and Shae was dismayed to see a single tear trickle down his cheek. "Wait. Can you feel this?" Shae took Edward's hand gently in his own, and Edward smiled shyly.

"Yes. I can feel your fingers. They're. . .they're warm." His smile flickered, then fell. "But why can't I move them?"

"Maybe. . .maybe they first need to be moved for ye." Shae rubbed his palm over Edward's, and began to bend and stimulate his fingers. After some minutes, Shae felt Edward's thumb twitch of its own accord. Their twin smiles were pure joy. As they worked together, and time sped by, Edward became able to move all four fingers and thumb of his own accord, if a little stiffly and slowly. He did manage, however, to pick up a book and leaf through it.

Shae was about to detach his second scissor hand when he happened to glance at his watch. It was nearing three o'clock, and his brother would be worried. "Edward," he said softly.

"Yes?"

"I have tae go now. I can change your hand now, but I'll not be able to help you with it till tomorrow. Is that all right?"

"I can do it myself." Edward beamed. "I can make my fingers move myself." He held up his mobile left hand. Shae grinned, and unlatched the scissor hand. Again, Edward gave a pained sound, but Shae was quicker with the right hand. After the click and whirr, Shae rose. "Wait." Edward said. "Would you.. .could you help me with my clothes?" Shae smiled guiltily as he realized that he'd nearly left his new friend without refastening his clothes. Buckling the leather back into place, he stepped back. "Thank you." Edward whispered. "Will you come back tomorrow? I'm so lonely."

"You don't have to stay here anymore." Shae said suddenly. "They won't be afraid of you now you've got hands. And even if they are, I'll protect you." Edward had fallen very silent. "I'm sure things have changed since you were down there last. They've all but forgotten about you. All but Mrs. Kim."

Edward's eyes became beams of joy when Kim's name was mentioned. "Do. . .do you think. . .do you think they won't. . .hate me?"

"Well, not everyone will like you, but not everyone can hate you. It's impossible."

"Maybe. . ." Edward hesitated, ". . .not yet. I should get used to being finished first."

"All right. D'you need food, like?"

"No. I don't need to eat. I don't even need to sleep, but I like dreaming."

"Oh. Well, then, I'll see you tomorrow, then."

"Bye." On impulse, Shae reached out and gave Edward a firm, one-armed hug. Then, turning, he raced out of the castle, through the gardens, and climbed down the mountain as quickly as safely possible.


	2. Of Accents and Imbeciles

About a Boy

Disclaimer: Neither Edward nor Suburbia belong to me. Neither does Kim. Neither does anything you might recognize. Everything else, including the lovely and talented Irish punk Shae O'Connor, belongs to ME! ME! YOU CAN'T HAVE MY SHAE, TIM BURTON, AND I CAN BORROW YOUR EDWARD! NANANANANANA!!! Wait. . .stop. . .Tim, I love you! (You get the point, right?) Also, if you see any inaccuracies in the description of anything, just review and tell me. . .I haven't seen the film since I was thirteen.

Chapter Two: Of Accents and Imbeciles

Shae arrived home out of breath and disheveled. He burst into the back door, and into the kitchen. Colleen, his brother's fiancée, started as he entered. She was standing at the sink, washing dishes. "Shae O'Connor, what the HELL do you think you're doing, running around like that? Are you trying to give me a heart-attack? And where have you been all day?"

"Around." He shrugged, opening the fridge.

"Have you had anything to eat?" she inquired. Shae shook his head. "I'd make you a sandwich, but we've run out of cold cuts."

"S'okay. I'll go down to the ice cream parlour and have somethin' there."

"Wait. Is that. . .is that blood on your cheek?"

He scrubbed a hand over the scratch on his face. He assumed Edward had given it to him accidentally while covering him with a blanket the previous night. "It's nothin'."

"What happened?"

"Don't know." Shae snatched up an apple. He hadn't realized how hungry he was until he took the first bite, and his stomach growled at the cold juice running down his throat. "Probably fell." They both grinned, as he did have an undeniable propensity to trip over things, even though he was usually well coordinated. "So where's Rory?"

"Your brother's gone out of town for a few days. He'll be back Monday."

"Where's it he's gone?"

"The city, to do some business." Colleen ruffled Shae's hair. "I didn't hear you come in last night. I was worried."

"Got back late, went out early."

"So did you spend all day alone, or did you have some friends?"

"I was alone." He replied through a mouthful of apple.

"Oh. Why don't you ever hang out with anyone?"

"Why should anyone want tae hang out with a foreign gothic freak? 'Speically one who doesn't do anything like them."

"I'm sure there are kids who. . ."

"Coll, it's useless. I don't play American sport, I don't get good grades, I don't like films, I don't get high anymore, and I only drink socially."

"You DRINK?!"

"Well, not anymore. Damn Yanks and your '21 and over' laws." He snarled.

"What about girls?" Colleen rinsed off the last plate and dried her hands. "You're tall, black-haired, blue-eyed, and you've got an irresistible accent. You've even got that bad-boy look I used to go crazy over when I was your age."

"I don't know. Girls. . .don't seem interested."

"Are you interested in girls?"

Shae chuckled dryly. "Yeh, I am."

"Well, maybe you're just hiding in corners—using your nationality and black nail polish as something to excuse you from making an effort." Shae frowned. He'd had this discussion with Rory before.

"I've tried, Coll. I won't wear bloody chinos and polo shirts just tae fit in." he pitched his apple core into the trash bin. "I'm goin' out again."

"Where?"

"I don't know. Out." He rose and left the house. It was warm enough outside for him to remove his jacket and wear it slung over his shoulder. As he sauntered down the block, he grinned at the silly pastel paradise surrounding him. Who'd have thought, from the rainy docks of Rosslare Harbour, that Shae O'Connor would ever live in Suburbia? Well, sometimes he preferred Ireland, but right now, with the sun just coming down from its summit, and a subtle breeze kissing his face, Shae was quite satisfied with the little town, even if it was filled primarily with self-absorbed, petty-minded people. Picking up the pace, he headed for the ice cream parlour.

It was filled with happy, chattering young people discussing school politics over banana splits and hot fudge sundaes. Shae ordered an Oreo parfait and, as all the tables were taken, he leaned against a wall to eat his ice cream, avoiding eye contact, though he knew he was being watched.

"Hey you!" the raucous shout made him glance up. "Yeah, you, Scottish boy!" he followed the voice to a blond, brown-eyed boy about his age sitting in a booth with his girlfriend and a couple of buddies. "Come here!"

Shae raised a brow and headed over to the booth. "What can I do f'r ye, gentleman?" he emphasized his accent, making all three other boys smirk.

"Grab a chair, Scottish," the blond one said. Shae recognized him vaguely, as one of the more popular jocks in his school.

"Why?"

"My girl here says it annoys her when ya stand, so sit yer Scot butt down."

"Wouldn't want to upset her." Sneered one of the other boys.

"No," Shae said quietly, a dangerous smile flirting about the edges of his lips. "No, we wouldn't." he winked at the girl, who blushed subtly, and turned away from him. He snagged a chair with his boot, and brought it round to the table, settling warily in it.

"So what's your name, Scottish?" the blond asked.

"First of all, I'm not Scottish, I'm Irish. And what's YOUR name?" the blond looked startled.

"You don't know who I am?"

"'Fraid not."

"Well. . .you're foreign. I'm Billy Page, and these are my baseball teammates, George and Donald."

"Shae O'Connor." He nodded. "Pleased tae meet yeh. And your girlfriend, does she not talk, like?"

The doe-eyed brunette smiled. "I'm Holly Laurence."

The name was obviously supposed to mean something, but Shae didn't follow high school politics, and only grated out another "nice to meet you," as he finished the last few spoonfuls of his parfait.

"So why are you in Suburbia?" inquired Billy, obviously the alpha of this little pack.

"Well, m'brother moved here, to marry Colleen Edgering, an' since me parents kicked th' bucket, he's got all th' money. So I figured it was a good idea tae move with him."

"Your parents are dead?" Holly asked.

"F'r a while now."

"I'm sorry." She said quietly.

"Don't be. It wasn't you what stabbed 'em forty times, it was me uncle." The three boys turned green, and Holly made a horrified face.

"D. . .did they. . .did they catch him?"

"Oh, aye they caught him all right. Th' bastard pled insanity." Shae laughed, and rose. "Well, mates, it's been fun chattin' an' all, but I've got no more use for yeh. Cheers."

"Where ya goin'?" Billy called after him.

"Yeah, how come you ain't socializin'?" taunted Donald.

"Don't have much'v a reason to. Sides, askin' questions about a man's dead kin's no way ta start up scintillatin' conversation." Shae's grin now reached from ear to ear.

"You gonna make a scene in fronta Holly?" demanded Billy.

"I'm jus' gettin' up cause I'm done with m' food. It's a free country, innit?" as he wheeled out of the parlour, he dumped the plastic parfait cup into a trash disposal. He hadn't gotten three steps whe he heard the sound of running feet behind him.

The first punch was thrown without warning, but these boys were used to chucking baseballs about, and Shae heard it from a mile away, sidestepped gracefully, and turned to face Billy, George, and Donald, who formed a loose circle round him.

"What're you lads doin' out here, when there are plenty o' pretty girls to chat up in there?"

"NO ONE walks out on me'n Holly." Growled Billy, in some attempt at intimidation.

"I took my leave quite well, I think. Did ye expect me tae talk yeh home?" still playing coy, Shae watched as George began creeping his hand into his pocket. A gun? A knife? Pepper spray? "Look, lads, if yeh want tae fight, I'm afraid you've got the wrong man, like. Obviously you're just lookin' f'r an excuse tae look tough, and I don't want tae ruin that for ya. Th' fact that ye've threatened me in itself is impressive enough, don't ya agree? So why don't we all go our merry ways, unbruised, like, an' I'll not have tae make the lot'v ya look as though you've been through a meat grinder."

Perhaps if it hadn't been for that last meat grinder comment, all three jocks might have indeed left him alone, but you must understand, Shae had testosterone just as well, in abundance, and couldn't resist the urge to taunt back. Billy, as the alpha, attacked first, swinging wildly. Shae ducked and dealt a solid blow to Billy's exposed solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him. Then both George and Donald came at him at once, not quite comprehending what had just happened. Shae suppressed the adrenal urge to lose all finesse, and caught Donald's fist while weaving around George's. He slammed the heel of his hand into Donald's chest, and, as he stumbled backward, turning pale and clutching his heart, Shae caught George by the throat.

"What has it got in its pocketses?" he snarled. A small crowd had formed, and Holly was helping Billy up. Shae plunged his hand into Billy's pocket and came out with a small gold pocket watch.

"T. . .take it! J. . .just leave us alone!"

"I don't want your damned watch." Shae dropped him, jammed the watch into the other boy's shaking hand, and backed away. "Now, you're going tae apologize to me f'r startin' sucha ruckus, bruisin' me knuckles, like, on trash like you three. Then you're gonna apologize to th' ice cream shop owner, f'r makin' a scene. Then y'r gonna apologize tae everyone 'ere, f'r upsettin' 'em so with y'r display of bigotry. Ye got me?"

"Y. . .yes."

"I'm gonna do the same, on'y I don't have tae apologize f'r any bloody bigotry." With a final snarl, Shae turned to the crowd. "I am sorry, f'r makin' a scene, but I s'pose when ye get date offers from THREE lads, th' best thing for it is tae walk away an' find a pretty girl. Awfully sorry I didn't do that tonight."

Everyone laughed, but uneasily, and Shae didn't fault them that. He didn't want to stay much longer, but he did skulk enough to be sure all three jocks apologized as he'd dictated. It didn't feel good, the intimidation—never had, but Shae knew that he was making enemies when he'd sat down at the table and winked at Holly. He'd expected more of a discouraging frown or lap rather than a blush. Well, American boys didn't like you chatting up their women any more than Irish ones. After buying himself a package of gum as a consolation prize, Shae hurried back home, took a brief shower, and, carefully avoiding Colleen, cleaned his torn knuckles with iodine, and put a bandage over them.

It was still early, and, as he didn't feel much like skulking about, Shae grabbed another apple and headed over to Mrs. Kim's house.


	3. In which Shae eats Cookies and Babysits

About a Boy

Disclaimer: Neither Edward nor Suburbia belong to me. Neither does Kim. Neither does anything you might recognize. Everything else, including the lovely and talented Irish punk Shae O'Connor, belongs to ME! ME! YOU CAN'T HAVE MY SHAE, TIM BURTON, AND I CAN BORROW YOUR EDWARD! NANANANANANA!!! Wait. . .stop. . .Tim, I love you! (You get the point, right?) Also, if you see any inaccuracies in the description of anything, just review and tell me. . .I haven't seen the film since I was thirteen.

Chapter Three: In Which Shae eats Cookies and Babysits

Kim Boggs was eighty-five. She had left Suburbia when she was twenty-one, and had somehow managed to travel the world. She had been married twice, the first time at the age of twenty-six, to a man about eighteen years older than she. He was an actor--an eccentric and charismatic Frenchman, and despite tabloid rumours that she was nothing more than a plaything, they had remained blissfully committed until he died. They'd had a son, who was twelve at the time. Kim was only thirty-eight.

She had grieved by traveling, moving on to England, and Ireland. At the age of forty, she met an American tourist from Suburbia who was traveling with his son, Richard. His name was Fred Edgering. They'd been quickly married, and just as quickly divorced. Kim had returned to using her maiden name, and though her relationship with Fred was prickly until his death, she had remained something of a surrogate mother to Richard, who was Colleen's father. It was through Kim that Rory and she had met, after all.

At the age of seventy-three she had returned to Suburbia, to watch her grand-nieces and nephews grow. They called her grandma, as did Colleen and her siblings. Kim's son from her first marriage, Edward Berangèr, had a successful political career in France, with a wife and four children, but Kim had not seen them in quite some time.

Now, twelve years after she'd returned to Suburbia, she sat in her kitchen, knitting steadily as she watched the batch of cookies she had put in the oven fifteen minutes ago. She heard the front door open, and listened for the footfalls as one of her 'grandchildren' tracked through her halls. She smiled. She had expected Shae to come visit her after his brother left town. Good, he'd be the first to try her special springtime cookies. Rising, she turned the oven off and slid an oven mitt onto her hand. "Shae," she called, as the boy entered the kitchen, "you wouldn't happen to want a chocolate chip cookie, would you?"

When she turned, Shae was leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest. "Yeh always know, Kim." He grinned that irresistible black Irish grin of his. "How do ye know?"

"You're the only one who wears those terrible boots in this town. Everyone else wears tennis shoes or trainers."

He shrugged, and leant forward to snag up a cookie shaped like a baseball mitt. "No one knows th' genius of Docs," he bit off a finger, and munched thoughtfully.

"You've got something you want to tell me, don't you?" she regarded him carefully as she sat down and resumed her knitting.

"Aye, I have. Just not so sure how you'll take to it is all."

Her deep brown eyes, always so deep in their soulful sorrow, pierced into him. "You know I could never stay angry with you, Shae."

He sighed. "Do ya remember th' first time you told me th' story of Edward Scissorhands?"

"Yes." She chuckled. "You said you were going to go up to the castle and bring him back down to me. Well, I don't see Edward anywhere, so I suppose you didn't have the nerve."

"Well, I didn't bring 'im back, cause he's afraid o' th' townsfolk."

Kim's eyes widened. "You went up." Her voice was very quiet, very controlled, but Shae could see the pain in her eyes.

"I did."

"Why?"

"Cause I said I would. An' I had a fight wi' Rory."

"But..."

"But nothing, Kim." Shae sighed. "He's there. Looks as yeh always said he would, on'y..." Shae hesitated a moment too long.

"Only what, Shae?"

"I don't know whether you'll like it. I...I found his 'ands on the floor in a room of th' castle, and I...I finished him." Her reaction was less explosive than he thought it would be. She simply caught his eyes up in hers, and didn't let go. It was a moment before he realized she was weeping silently. "Kim," he grasped her aged hand in his. "Don't yeh know what this means? He came come DOWN now. He can be....anything he wants. He asked me tae change him, grams." He only called her 'grams' when he wanted something, or was feeling particularly happy.

Kim wiped her eyes. "I'm not crying because I'm upset, Shae." She tightened her fingers around his. "I'm very happy for him. I'm only..." she hesitated. "Things can never be as they once were between Edward and I, even though I love him...more than any other man I've ever known."

"Grams..." Shae wrapped his arms around her, feelings his heart palpitate. He knew her better than he'd ever known anyone, and he'd be damned if anyone knew HIM better than she did. She was one of his only friends, and the only person to whom he showed any of his true feelings. "Grams, please don't. You can be happy again. Edward loves yeh still. Didn't seem tae phase him at all when I said you were eighty-five. He's got concept o' time. He knows...I'm sure he does. After all, his creator was old. Th' first person he ever knew was old."

"It's not about my age, Shae. It's about experience. Edward is still as beautiful and pure and naïve as he was all those years ago, and I..." she sighed deeply, "I am different. He can't love a different Kim."

"But I love ye. Everyone does. You take care of everyone you know, like a mother tae everyone yeh know. An' ye've never gotten anything back. Well, it's time yeh do. Edward said he'd think about comin' down after he got used tae bein' finished. You've got tae see him. It's RIGHT."

"Time will tell."

"Ye don't HAVE time, Kim." He sighed. "You're eighty-five. Don't pretend like we don't realize that. You're older'n anyone I know. You've not GOT time."

"Damn it!" she thumped her thin fist on the table, and Shae started. He'd never heard her curse before. "Damn it," she repeated, more quietly this time. "You don't understand, do you? I LOVED him, Shae. More than anything in the world. I still do. But I've changed, while he has gone on being as beautiful as before."

"But you deserve..." he was about to continue, but the look in her eyes stopped him. "Fine." He said, and rose. "I'll wait."

Seeing that he was going to leave on a rather less than positive note, Kim grasped his forearm. "Wait, Shae. Why don't you take a batch of cookies round to Roslind's house?" Roslind was her grand-niece, the daughter of Kevin's son.

Their eyes met over the bowl of cookies. He blinked back tears, ashamed to be feeling so emotional after such a small matter. "Yeah. All right." He grasped the bowl, and squeezed her hand reassuringly. "Be safe, grams." He leant forward and brushed his lips over her weathered cheek. As he left the house and the smells of baking that wafted through it, he paused, and wondered what precisely it was that had nearly brought him to tears. Was it simply the idea that Kim would be delayed in her decision whether to see Edward again? Or was it because she had refused to speak of her imminent death? Shae knew she wouldn't be around forever, but the thought of it was still painful.

Shaking himself, he headed for Roslind's house a few blocks away. As he approached the pastel blue home, he steeled his nerves for what was ahead. Roslind's father, Greg, was a friendly enough man, who tried to ignore the fact that Shae wore black leather jackets and plaid pants, with heavy boots where another eighteen year old boy might be in a jean jacket and chinos with expensive Nike trainers, but his wife, Kate, didn't try to ignore a thing, and was sternly disapproving of her husband's instant acceptance of the Irish boy. As for Roslind herself, Shae wasn't quite certain what to make of her. She was an average Suburbian girl, two years younger than himself, with large brown eyes and a short auburn bobbed haircut. She was quiet enough, but he'd seen her with her friends, giggling and sighing about some boy or other. That in itself had predispositioned him to dislike her, but when he'd spoken to her, and they had gotten past the initial awkwardness, there was a connection of sorts. They both pathologically enjoyed reading, and both resented authority to varying degrees.

However, despite their casual friendship, Shae couldn't help but notice their differences every time he saw her. She was a pretty girl, with friends and a social circle, neither of which he could lay claim to. She had grown up with a mother and father, with two elder brothers who protected her despite their bickering. She'd never had to worry about financial difficulties, her next meal, or thugs on the docks waiting to beat her into a senseless pulp. She didn't have to worry about gang alliances or being shot or knifed or intimidated. She'd never slept on concrete in pouring rain, with the smell of rotting fish round her, clutching a dull switchblade in case someone decided to bother her. It was impossible to imagine what her childhood had been like, but Shae was quite certain that she felt precisely the same way about his.

Raising a hand, he rang the doorbell and waited uneasily until Greg came to the door. "Shae! Hey, come in. What can I do for you?"

"Erm..." he held out the bowl. "Cookies. From Kim. She said to bring them for Roslind."

"Oh." Greg thought for a moment. "Well, I'm about to go meet Kate at a restaurant for dinner. It's our anniversary, you know." He winked.

"Happy anniversary, sir."

"Thanks. Hey, Roslind's gonna be home alone, and I'm worried that something might happen to her." Shae nearly choked at the thought of 'something' happening in Suburbia. God forbid. "Why don't you stick around? She always says she's too old for a babysitter, but I think she wouldn't mind you hanging around."

"Erm..." Shae hesitated for a moment, wondering what the best excuse was. He was about to say that Rory was out of town and he didn't want Colleen to be alone, but Greg was a moment quicker on the draw.

"Thanks, Shae, I really appreciate it. Her bedtime's at eleven, so not too many movies. You can make popcorn and have some cookies, but don't let her have any hot chocolate, because it keeps her up." Greg patted Shae's shoulder. "Thanks, pal. I'll make it up to you." And he fled out the door as though he had the devil on his heels.

Shae stood in the living room for a moment, the bowl of cookies in his hands, staring like an idiot. Finally, he walked into the kitchen, put the bowl on the counter, and sat down, scratching his head. How Greg had managed to corner him into 'babysitting' Roslind was beyond him. He was about to write a note and leave when Roslind walked in behind him.

"Shae? Is that you?"

"No, it's your fairy godmother." He snapped, instantly regretting his sharp tone when she winced. "Sorry, Ros. Look, your da seems tae think ya need me as a babysitter. He left b'fore I could say anythin', but if you don't say anythin' I'm sure we can convince him that I was about an' since nothin' could happen..."

"You're leaving?" her brown eyes widened. "Why?" If Shae didn't know better, he'd have thought she was upset.

"Erm...I figure I'm about the worst person tae be round if your da doesn't want anythin' happenin' to ya."

"You don't want to hang out with me?" her tone was almost hurt.

"No, 'tisn't that." Shae shrugged. "Look, if ye want me around, I'll stay."

"Then stay." Her chin lifted stubbornly. Shae nearly grinned. Nearly. "What's in the bowl?"

"Some o' your gram's cookies. Chocolate chip."

"Ooh!" her face lit up, and she descended on the bowl hungrily. "Ohh, they're good. Thanks, Shae." This time, he smiled at the sight of her stuffing cookies into her mouth as though she hadn't eaten in weeks.

"No problem."

"So, you wanna watch TV or what?"

"Sure, why not?"

"Lemme make some popcorn."

"No need. We've cookies."

"All right. You want some hot chocolate?"

"Sure. As long as ye don't mention it to your da." He meant it as a joke, but she nodded in all seriousness.

"I won't. He gets really upset when I drink chocolate in the evening." Shae checked his watch. It was indeed about six o'clock. He hoped he could get home before Colleen worried again. Staying out late two nights in a row was something the old Shae would do. Not this one. He was on the straight-and-narrow, he was. He hoped the straight-and-narrow could make exceptions for the brief fistfight he'd been in earlier.

As he and Roslind settled back on the sofa, he turned toward her. "Ros, I've a question."

"What is it?" she slurped her cocoa.

"Does th' name Holly Laurence mean anything to you?"

Her eyes grew wide again. "Yeah! She's the head cheerleader at school. She's really popular. She's dating Billy Page. Why're you asking?"

Shae hesitated, then decided he should tell the truth. She'd hear it at school anyhow, and hearing it from his perspective was far better than from anyone else's skewed version. "Well, I ran into her an' Billy an' two of his mates...George and Donald, at th' ice cream parlour. Talked wi' them f'r a while, but it seems like I left b'fore they were quite finished wi' me. All three bloody jocks came after me with intent tae pulverize me." He grinned.

"What happened?"

"What d'you think happened? I gave much better'n I got." He displayed his bandaged knuckles.

"Oh my God!" she shrieked, grasping his hand. "Are you all right? I mean...of course you're all right. But what happened to them?"

"I put 'em down without much fuss. Didn't hurt 'em too badly...jus' fractured their pride." He grinned at her concerned expression. "Ros, don't worry about it."

"That's not going to be all, Shae." She murmured, letting go of him. "Billy doesn't like being shown up. He's going to keep coming after you, with more and more of his friends, until he teaches you a lesson."

Shae shrugged indifferently. "Then I'll jus' have tae apologize, now, won't I?"

"Apologize? To Billy?"

"Yeah. Ain't like I'm suckin' up. Jus' sayin', let's call it quits, I don't want tae have tae hurt ye no more."

"Do you think he'll...let you by with that?"

"I know lads like Billy. They like tae flex their muscles, show off a bit. If I make a show of apologizin', his pride'll be appeased an' th' game'll stop."

"Would you do that?"

"Skirmishes like that're how wars start, Ros. I've seen blood feuds go on f'r years between gangs down at th' docks. Was involved in a few of 'em. Saw how pointless it was. But quit bogartin' th' cookies. I want some calories, as well, damn it." He grinned good-naturedly and stole a pastry.

Roslind smiled back at him, and for a half moment, he was tempted to lean over and brush his lips over hers. But he knew he shouldn't. Too much excitement in a day wasn't good for a man. Instead, he chomped down on Kim's cookie and hoped Edward's hands would be fully functional by the following day.


End file.
